Fallen Angel (35 page)

Maddie stared unblinkingly at her companions. That two such elegant and formidable lionesses of the ton should share her own eccentric affinity, and, moreover, admit to it, filled her with astonishment.

"Don't be intimidated, child," said Lady Bessborough, mistaking Maddie's wide-eyed look. "We're quite harmless, aren't we Catherine?"

Lady Rutherston flashed Maddie a commiserating smile.

"Of coarse we are. And we have no intentions of boring you with a subject which is dear to no one but ourselves."

"Oh, but I wish you would! What I mean to say is, I won't be bored."

"You won't?" Lady Bessborough's tone was dubious.

"Harriet," interjected Lady Rutherston, her amber eyes lightening with interest as they surveyed Maddie, "I do believe we've found another sheep for the fold."

"What?"

Maddie stood stock-still as two pairs of eyes became trained on her slight person. In other circumstances, she would have been very glad that she had chosen to wear one of her new morning gowns with its shorter length showing a bit of ankle and horizontal rows of tucks around the bodice and hem. But this unnerving assessment, she knew, was of quite a different order.

Lady Bessborough spoke first. "She's very young."

"So were you, I daresay. So was I. What has that to say to anything?" said Lady Rutherston with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

"Are you a classicist, child?"

"Yes." There, it was out!

"What branch?"

Maddie did not hesitate to answer. "Attic Greek."

"Be more specific," Lady Bessborough admonished.

Lady Bessborough could be quite formidable when she wanted to be, Maddie thought. False humility, she conjectured, would not be, tolerated in these circles.

"Linguistics, first and foremost."

"Pshaw!" decried the older lady. "I regard that as a branch of the Sciences! It has no soul."

Maddie was enjoying herself enormously. "Very true. But without it, there would be no other branches of Classics. Linguistics is the key to unlocking the body of knowledge."

"Yes, but to what purpose if we don't benefit from that knowledge? It might as well stay obscure for all the good it will do."

"Exactly. And without precise translation, there can be no proper interpretation."

This was argument for the sake of argument, and Maddie relished it. She had never expected that in London, of all places, among the
crème de la crème
of the ton, she would find any group of ladies with more to their conversation than the latest fashions from Paris, or which hostess gave the most lavish parties and other such commonplaces, though she admitted that these ladies were comfortable in any circumstances, and envied them for it. She thought herself very fortunate to have been taken up by Lady Mary, and wondered at it a little.

As they took their places on chairs set out in a semi-circle around a makeshift podium, Lady Bessborough excused herself and went to greet a young woman who had just entered.

"You said that linguistics was your first love," observed Lady Rutherston in a quiet aside. "What comes second?"

"Greek drama. And yours?"

Lady Catherine smiled confidingly. "The same. Or at least it used to be. But with two babies at home, and another one expected, there hasn't been much time of late to pursue my interest."

Maddie was suitably commiserating.

"I'm supposed to give the paper next month on 'Women in Classical Greece,'" Lady Rutherston remarked.

"I look forward to hearing it," responded Maddie with some enthusiasm.

Lady Rutherston eyed the younger girl speculatively. "You wouldn't care to collaborate with me, would you? I could use the help."

"Oh, I don't think . . . I'm not sure . . . perhaps someone else . . ."

"There is no one else. As you've observed, even as Classicists, we all have our own particular speciality. Lady Bessborough and our hostess are addicted to Plato, with Lady Mary, it's Homer. Of course, we all dabble, but we don't feel competent in each other's field. My husband has offered to help, but he is worse than useless. His thesis is that the women of antiquity were put on a pedestal by their menfolk."

"That's hogwash," protested Maddie. Privately, she thought that Lord Rutherston must be an ignorant clod, and wondered at the waste of the vivacious and intelligent girl who had married him.

"That, my dear Miss Sinclair, by and large, is the typical male attitude, and most of them have some background in the classics. My thesis, on the other hand, is that Athenian women were much like the women of our own day and age."

"Which is to say?"

"For the most part, despised and taken advantage of, except for a fortunate few."

Lady Catherine expressed Maddie's own sentiments exactly. It seemed foolish to let false modesty stand in the way of what might well turn out to be a very pleasant exercise.

"I'll do it," said Maddie, evincing more confidence than she felt.

"Good girl! We'll talk about it later. Here comes our hostess with the guest of honour."

As it happened, the Countess of Rossmere had secured a compatriot of Maddie's for her guest speaker on that particular Thursday. Maddie's eyes followed the tall figure of Walter Scott as he limped his way toward the podium. He was a familiar figure to her, for she had seen him often enough as he went about his business in the streets of Edinburgh. She wondered at the odd turn of events that had thrown them together now, when they had been near neighbours but almost strangers in their native land.

The man was held in the highest esteem, even in England. The Prince Regent was his most devoted admirer. It was commonly believed that Scott was the author of the Waverley novels, though he steadfastly disclaimed that honour. Only one poet surpassed him in popularity—Lord Byron. Yet, there was no envy there. The two literary giants were reputed to be the best of friends, in spite of the disparity in their ages and the dissimilarity in temperament. Scott was an acknowledged philanthropist, inclined to be abstemious and utterly without malice. Byron, as everyone knew, was the opposite.

Mr. Scott had chosen for his subject, "Waterloo and its Aftermath," which surprised Maddie a little. She had expected the man of letters to hold forth on some literary topic. But it seemed that Scott had visited the famous battlefield six weeks after the event and had been deeply moved by the experiences which many of Wellington's officers had related. As for the Duke, Scott extolled him as the most sensible and plain person
he had ever met, and regarded his friendship as the highest distinction of his life.

He held his listeners spellbound to the last word. He called for questions.

One young woman was on her feet, a little in front of Maddie, to the right.

"Mr. Scott," she said in a peculiarly light and breathy tone, "today you have said some very unflattering things about Napoleon Bonaparte. Your great friend, Lord Byron, on the other hand, admires him to excess. Will you admit, for once, to being at odds with this
bete noir
of our society?"

The question was patently emotional in character. Maddie craned her neck to get a better look at the lady who had asked it. At her back, she heard someone murmur the name "Caro Lamb." The girl on her feet was slight of form with wisps of blond curls framing a small gamine face. It was easy to see how she had come by the nickname, "the Sprite."

Mr. Scott seemed to weigh her question for a moment. Maddie thought she saw a softening in his piercing grey eyes. "Lady Caroline," he said at last, his rough Scottish voice smoothing to velvet, "I'm delighted to see you again. Your brother continues to mend, I trust?"

The reference, Maddie knew, was to Freddie Ponsonby who had been gravely wounded at Waterloo. His sister, Caro Lamb, whom he adored, had rushed to Brussels to care for him through a long convalescence.

"Thank you, yes," intoned Lady Caro in the same breathy tone. Maddie wondered if it was affectation! "Will you answer the question please, Mr. Scott?"

There was a
 
faint stir in the audience, but the man of letters gave no indication that Lady Caro's needling had ruffled his feathers. Quite the reverse. He answered her question civily and gravely, and with an unmistakeable thread of compassion in his voice.

"On the question of Napoleon, Lord Byron and I have long since agreed to differ. On our muse, however, our opinions are remarkably alike."

"And what about your views on men who mistreat women?" persisted Lady Caro. "Did you know that Lady Byron has deserted her husband and charged that the man is impossibly insane.'

From the corner of her eye, Maddie saw Lady Bessborough rise and move toward her daughter. Her expression was stricken. The girl seemed to struggle, then suddenly crumpled into her mother's arms: She was led out sobbing incoherently.

"What was that all about?" Maddie asked Lady Rutherston in a soft undertone.

"Scott and Byron are devoted to each other. I think it's a case of the attraction of opposites. Caro Lamb would like to see Byron sent to oblivion. She should be pleased. He's almost sunk that low now. He can't afford another scandal."

"She looked so . . . distraught."

"Don't worry about her. Her mother will see that she's all right. As for her husband, William Lamb, he is an absolute paragon."

The awkward moment was soon smoothed over, too smoothly in Maddie's opinion. She'd heard all about Lady Caro Lamb and her disastrous affair with Byron. But that was long over. Public opinion had not been kind to the girl who had once been the darling of society.

With characteristic indifference, she had broken one of its cardinal rules. She had flaunted her indiscretions. Some said her excesses were mere affectation, that Caro Lamb would rather be infamous than anonymous. Maddie was not convinced. She thought the girl looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

With the departure of Caro Lamb, relief became almost patent. The questions were lively, but not argumentative. The nature of Scott's address was not of the sort to spark debate. Maddie wondered if it had been a deliberate ploy on his part.

She managed a few words with him before she was surreptitiously but determinedly edged away by other ladies.

"You spoke at my school on Founders' Day," she told him shyly. "Miss Maitland's Academy for Girls in Charlotte Square."

His pleasure was gratifying. "You're a graduate of Miss Maitland's? Now there's something to be proud of! You'll have one of the best groundings in the classics outside of St. An
drews University. My lack in that respect has been one of the great regrets of my life, though I've no one to blame but myself."

Mr. Scott, unlike Lord Byron, was reputed to admire clever women, or so he said. Still, it was common knowledge in Edinburgh that his own daughters had enjoyed a very indifferent education.

"You spoke to us about the Scottish regalia and their mysterious disappearance during the last century. Are you still hunting them down?"

His grey eyes took on a fervent glint, "Aye. And one day, God willing, I'll find them, and Scotland will once again glory in its rightful insignia of state."

She believed he would. An elbow caught her in the ribs, and she regretfully gave way to another lady eager for a word with the great man.

Lady Mary had overheard the few words she had exchanged with
Mr
.
Scott.

"What regalia?" she asked, and led Maddie to the tea table where the scones and tea had been newly replenished.

"The Scottish regalia? You might call them the crown jewels —you know, the royal crown, the sceptre and the sword of state. No one knows what happened to them, whether the Scots themselves hid them or whether the English spirited them away from Edinburgh Castle after the Jacobite Rebellions."

"Oh. Is it important?"

"Mr. Scott
thinks so.
I
wish
I
'd had time to quiz him some more.
He
's very eloquent on that subject.
He
has a theory that they're still in the Castle."